The Red Hoodie: An Amber McNeil Mystery, #2

By Sandra Nikolai

When psychic Amber McNeil receives a plea for help from a deceased little girl, she has no choice but to act...

 

As psychic consultant to the Montreal Police Service, Amber perceives a flash of red from one file among hundreds stored in the cold case unit. It's a sign that the victim in a decades-old case needs her help: eight-year-old Marie Troy.

 

The little girl dropped off a jar of soup at her grandmother's, then walked to school but she never got there. The red hoodie she wore that day was her favorite, but it—along with Marie—were never found.

 

Amber can't help but compare the details of Marie's case to Little Red Riding Hood. Are investigators searching for yet another child abductor obsessed with fairy tales?

 

Time is running out. Amber and her partner, Detective Sergeant Ryan Baxter, have a quota of cold cases to solve, or the unit will be shut down. Amber's psychic gift is a closely held secret, but the disturbing insights she gets from the evidence makes it difficult to hide her reactions from other colleagues. Her attraction to Ryan is another secret she's hiding from them.

 

Can Amber keep her secrets hidden while she rushes to solve another cold case?

 

Books in the Amber McNeil Mystery series

The Missing Slipper (book 1)

The Red Hoodie (book 2)

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vemcort Publishing
• Release date: Nov 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781989011225

Sandra Nikolai

Author Sandra Nikolai weaves ordinary characters into extraordinary, life-threatening situations. If you enjoy the challenge of solving whodunits, you'll love her mystery series featuring ghostwriter Megan Scott and investigative reporter Michael Elliott. To keep up to date on Sandra's latest books and special offers, visit her website at www.SandraNikolai.com and subscribe to her Newsletter. You can also follow her on Twitter @SandraNikolai or Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/SandraNikolaiAuthor 

Book preview

1

The scent of polished wood floors and freshly painted walls couldn’t offset the musty smell of eight hundred cold cases waiting for justice. As I ran my hand along the rows of competing bankers boxes at Montreal Police Service headquarters, it was hard to focus.

The image of a little girl’s hand popped into my mind. It vanished in the next instant. An uneasy and eerie feeling settled in the pit of my stomach, like it did whenever I lingered in the storage room.

My mind raced, overwhelmed with frantic screams and disturbing images as my fingers flitted across more boxes. Were the victims’ cries for help all in my head?

Not at all.

I come from a line of empaths, so these perceptions were real to me. My psychic ability to get an impression when touching an object was an advantage in my job as consultant to police investigators. My sensory talents had been a curse for twenty-five years, but now I could finally harness them for good.

There was one problem, though. It was hard to remain objective and not panic when I examined case evidence, like shocking crime scene photos and personal articles that had belonged to the victim. It wasn’t only about the physical evidence. My perceptions—mental images or feelings that I experienced without warning—often left me gasping for air. Learning how to control my emotions was an ongoing struggle, but I was determined to win. Why? Because I truly believed it was my duty to help these victims.

I paused at a box marked Marie Troy, 1968 on the bottom shelf. I knelt down, balancing on my two-inch heels to get a closer look. As I ran my fingers across the letters, a bright red flash clouded my vision. Whenever I experienced one of these strange visual disturbances, it signaled to me that I’d found the case I needed to work on. I pulled the box from the shelf and carried it out of the storage room.

My heels clicked as I walked down the hallway to the department’s renovated office. The top brass had recognized our recent investigative success and rewarded us by converting our former makeshift office into a suitable workplace. It now held a conference room, a small kitchen, and desks for each member of our newly formed cold case unit.

Corey Reed and Nadia Paquin, recent university graduates, were information officers who gathered, validated, and transmitted data regarding criminal cases. One of their tasks was to transfer the information stored in boxed cold case files to the police computer database. Seated at a desk facing Nadia, the gangly man was in a heated discussion with her about something technical. Her wavy brown hair, a couple of shades lighter than my dark brunette, softened her usual deadpan expression as she stared at him. Both ignored me as I went by.

I strode by Lieutenant Albert Payton’s glass-walled office. He nodded at me before continuing his conversation on the phone. The lieutenant reminded us daily that the pressure was on. The department constantly faced the threat of drastic budget cuts. We had to solve a quota of cases to maintain operations, or else our unit would be eliminated. Of course, the regular members of the force, like Corey and Nadia, would simply get reassigned. As a civilian, there were no other roles for me.

Detective Sergeant Ryan Baxter, the handsome thirty-something lead investigator and criminal profiler, sat facing me. Our computers separated us and allowed for some privacy, though the top of his thick brown hair alerted me whenever he was at his desk.

Detective Sergeant Matt Gallo sat to the left of us. In his mid-forties and recently divorced, he was an experienced investigator that Ryan had recruited from homicide a week ago. While Matt spoke on the phone in a hushed tone, he flipped through reports in another cold case file. Across from him was an empty desk, which the lieutenant would fill with another investigator if we succeeded in solving more cases. If was a cautionary word in our unit.

Aside from Ryan and the lieutenant, no one else in the unit knew about my psychic gift. To protect me from curious minds, as well as devious ones, the lieutenant had suggested from the start that we keep it a secret among us. I preferred it that way. To the rest of the team, I was introduced as a consultant with unique observation skills.

I was thankful that our unit was separated from homicide and other police departments in the building. It limited my exposure to the negative emotions and energy triggered by other detectives working grisly murder cases, interviewing traumatized witnesses, and grilling suspected perpetrators.

Ryan craned his neck around the computer monitor. Good morning, Amber. He smiled and winked at me as I set the bankers box down on my desk.

I felt a gush of warmth inside and returned a brief smile, then hastily sat down. A nervous glance around confirmed that no one else had noticed his wink or the signs of attraction between us.

Our relationship had developed into a romantic one after we’d worked on our first cold case together. I was thrilled about it, but was he the one? I didn’t know. In any case, we’d agreed to take it slowly.

There was one clear obstacle to our relationship, though. An intimate rapport between staff within the same police unit was prohibited. If it were discovered, I would be easy to terminate, but Ryan had more than a decade of experience as a police officer. I didn’t want to be responsible for his reassignment to another unit or worse: the loss of his job. Neither of us wanted that, so we agreed to hide our relationship from colleagues, which made it more exciting in a way.

We had another reason for keeping our relationship a secret: We’d put a lot of effort into helping the lieutenant set up the new unit. It was our baby, so to speak, and we were totally devoted to furthering its success. We’d hate to give it all up—especially when the unit was in its infancy and the future was so promising.

Working on criminal cases at police headquarters was serious business. Deadly serious business. My personal relationship with Ryan didn’t figure into the equation. I had to give the job my entire focus if I wanted to keep it. Period.

If there was one person I especially didn’t want to disappoint, it was Chief Inspector Ted Tremblay, who happened to be my uncle. He believed that my special abilities would be a game-changer, that my insights would help to solve cold cases and keep the unit running. That he’d recommended me for the consultant job was another well-kept secret known only to Ryan, the lieutenant, and me. I couldn’t imagine what would happen if anyone else found out!

Matt stood up and approached me, the scent of his spicy after-shave invading my nostrils. Can I get anyone a hot coffee on this cool October morning? He eyed me in particular.

I didn’t have to be psychic to see he was trying hard to please me. We’d spoken briefly since he joined the unit, but it was obvious he wanted to get to know me on a more personal level. That would never happen.

No, thanks, Matt, I said. Even as I looked away, I felt his eyes roaming over my body.

When Ryan declined his offer too, Matt sauntered off toward the kitchen.

My confidence had soared the other day when Ryan suggested that I pick the next cold case we’d work on. He trusted my insights. But although I was eager to review the files with him, insecurities crept in once in a while. Would he accept my choice?

Which case called out to you this time, Amber? Ryan rounded the corner of my desk, his tall muscular form one of the reasons I was so drawn to him.

Marie Troy, 1968.

He stood closer to me and gently squeezed my hand.

I pulled my hand away and flipped my hair over my shoulder, annoyed that he’d risk such an affectionate gesture. What if another coworker had noticed?

Uh...sorry, he whispered. Sometimes I can’t help myself. He pulled up a chair beside me, his demeanor now all business-like. Let’s see what we have here.

I removed the lid from Marie Troy’s bankers box and dug out the investigative file. Inside was a faded Polaroid photo of an eight-year-old girl with blonde hair and blue eyes. She wore a red hoodie over a school uniform and held a plaid schoolbag. As I held the photo, a stream of images sped through my mind: a man’s hand...a narrow road...a stifling, enclosed space. My breath caught in my throat.

Ryan had witnessed my sensitive reactions to case evidence before. Are you okay, Amber? he asked in a quiet voice.

I told him about my perceptions. I think I’m sensing all of this through Marie.

Those images could be clues. He picked up a witness report from the file and read it. Marie’s mother states she believed her daughter went missing on her way to school that morning. He reached for other reports and scanned them. Oh, hell!

What’s wrong?

There’s no follow-up on any of the witness statements. Fingerprints were lifted but not verified. I’d hate to think that past investigators did sloppy work. Maybe budget cuts stopped them in their tracks. Damn! He tossed the reports on the desk.

I’d rarely seen him get this angry. Exasperation sparked from him like a crackling fire. I shuddered.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump my frustrations on you, he said in a soft voice.

This isn’t like you, Ryan. What’s the matter?

It’s this case. He retrieved the pile of reports. Here we have reports about a little girl who disappeared in broad daylight. From what I’ve read so far, we have no leads. Somebody must have seen something.

I peered closer at the photo of Marie. A tiny round object hung from a gold chain around her neck.

All of a sudden, pain gripped me, and a pang shot through my chest. No! I dropped the photo and leaned over.

Ryan put his hands on my shoulders to steady me. It’s okay. Just breathe.

I drew in a lungful and hastily clasped the amethyst cluster in my pocket to calm my nerves. It was a gift from my Aunt Elaine, Uncle Ted’s wife. She shared the same psychic lineage as me. The crystal was her way of protecting me from a job she considered too severe for the sensitivities of empaths like us. I clutched it, sensing tranquility flowing through me again.

Nadia ran up to me. Are you okay, Amber?

Uh...yes, I’m fine. Embarrassed, I fished for an excuse. I–I felt a bit dizzy, that’s all.

Are you sure? Her eyes searched mine.

Yes.

Can I get you something? A coffee?

I’d have grabbed any opportunity to stop her curiosity in its tracks, but I had to be truthful. No, thanks.

Are you really sure? Nadia’s perplexed stare lingered on me.

We’re good here, Ryan said to her.

Okay. Nadia hesitated, then turned and walked away.

Ryan waited until she was out of earshot. What is it, Amber? What did you see?

It’s more about what I felt, I whispered. Marie suffered a lot when she died.

You actually sensed that?

Yes, but only a second of it.

Ryan’s phone beeped. He glanced at the screen. I have a meeting with the lieutenant. He wants an update on the status of our cases.

Budget cuts on the agenda?

I hope not. I’ll review Marie’s file with you later. Can you prepare a summary of the investigative events and reports for me? It looks like a challenging—but interesting—case. Good choice. He slipped into his jacket and headed for the conference room.

Encouraged, I pressed on.

The date on the witness statements indicated it was a cool spring day when eight-year-old Marie Troy disappeared. One report stated that Bernadette Troy—her mother—had asked Marie to bring a jar of soup to her sick grandmother before going to school. As was the little girl’s habit, she walked along the back alley to her grandmother’s home a few doors over. In another report, her grandmother confirmed that Marie delivered the soup and then left right away. It didn’t state whether she left by the back door or the front door on her way to school. The path she took might have made a difference.

Regardless, Marie never got there.

Police had interviewed Allen Corbin—Marie’s stepfather. After Allen married Bernadette, they had a son named Tim but separated years later. The police database had turned up nothing criminal for Allen. He’d been away on business and returned to Montreal the day Marie went missing. Details of the man’s schedule were sketchy or incomplete.

Investigators had also spoken with Gaston Belair, a neighbor who lived on the same street as the Troy family. He saw Marie leave for school as usual that morning before he drove off to work. His supervisor at Torg Construction confirmed Gaston had clocked in at noon and worked on a job most of the day. I took note of the fact his morning hours weren’t accounted for.

As for other reports on file, no pertinent information was obtained from Sarina Bruno, a babysitter who lived on the next street, and Judy White, the young friend who usually accompanied Marie to and from school.

The last report was from an unnamed neighbor. He told police he’d found Marie’s schoolbag and lunchbox on top of a garbage pile in the back alley that morning. From the schoolbag, he’d pulled out a notebook with a name on it but hadn’t recognized it. He handed the items to the police later that afternoon when they made the rounds to interview residents. That he’d probably contaminated the evidence by handling it crossed my mind. Investigators hadn’t noted his name, so there was no way to contact him. As Ryan had pointed out, fingerprints had been lifted from the evidence, but there was no follow-up.

I studied a Polaroid photo of the Troy residence. Typical of the 1950s multi-family dwellings, a short driveway led from the alley behind the home to a single-car garage that flanked the backyard. Another photo showed a well-kept, grassy backyard and black wrought iron railing that spiraled up to the first-, second-, and third-floor apartments of the red brick residence. Similar railing skirted the front of the building.

Also included was a hand-drawn map that showed the path Marie took from her home to the elementary school several blocks away. Investigators had drawn a line from the back door of her home and along the alley. Had police confirmed that specific path with a reliable source? It didn’t matter. Ryan and I would have to interview every witness again anyway.

I reached into the bankers box for an evidence bag. It held a white hairbrush with pink roses on the handle. Strands of blonde hair clung to the bristles. As I held the bag, I captured an image of a young girl, smiling, her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. It was Marie.

The next evidence bag I pulled out contained a metal lunchbox with Charlie Brown, Lucy, and Snoopy from the cast of Peanuts repeated on the front and back. As I held the bag, an image of three little girls in school uniforms eating and giggling around a lunch table popped into my thoughts, then vanished.

I dug into the box to retrieve the evidence bag that held Marie’s schoolbag. The canvas bag had a red and black plaid pattern with a red plastic handle and two front buckles. A common design in the 1960s, it was the same as the schoolbag in her photo. A smaller evidence bag held two pencils, an eraser, a notebook, and a wood ruler. I studied the notebook. Marie’s full name was neatly printed in block letters on the cover.

I was placing the schoolbag back in the bankers box when a chill ran through my body. My fingertips tingled and pain shot through my right hand. I felt as if the schoolbag had been ripped out of my grasp. I dropped it, but not before another insight hit me: the shadowy, unshaven face of a man. The perpetrator! He was still alive!

I’d had a similar perception about another abductor when Ryan and I were investigating the Vicky Johnson cold case. Since five-year-old Vicky had lived in the same area as me twenty years ago, I’d felt a personal connection to the case. More so because I was about the same age as her when she was kidnapped. Sadly, my parents were killed by an intruder in our home months before Vicky’s kidnapping. I was spared their fate,